Namesake
by Shahzadi
Summary: Each and every Harry Potter character has something significant about their name, whether it be the sound, meaning, or namesake. A series of one-shots focusing on the names of all our favorite characters. new: JAMES POTTER II. R
1. Bellatrix

**Bellatrix**

Bellatrix Black Lestrange lived up to her name.

_Black _

Her original surname was the one she loved most. She was born a Black and remained a Black, even after marrying Rodolphus. For she was, indeed, Black in heart and mind—and her Black nature was irrepressible.

Bellatrix took extreme pride in her surname for it was exactly what she based her life upon. Her breath upon. Her own _self _upon. It was also why she hated Sirius so intensely. . . for Sirius scorned the name Black: he rejected it after being a Black himself. Being a Black was akin to honor but without the humility—for being a Black was a birthright. And Sirius spurned his name and what it stood for. And she hated him for it. And she expressed that hate by killing him for just that reason.

To be a Black was to do what was expected of oneself. But she was not like Narcissa, who did so in a cold, passive manner. No, Bellatrix was far more passionate in this obedience, for she was of a more willful nature than her easily submissive sister. Bellatrix had more options than Narcissa did because her will was strong enough to meet them. But the one she chose? _Black. _Her fervency in being a Black, in _Toujours Pur_, surpassed those of her parents. For her parents never killed, or tortured, or _died _for _Toujours Pur_. . .

_Lestrange_

Lestrange was not as special as Black. But she would never phrase this out loud, for it would be personally degrading, since she herself was now a Lestrange. For after all, her husband and her brother-in-law were much more tenacious in their beliefs, much more than the Death Eaters who renounced their connections to the Dark Lord and avoided Azkaban by doing so. She hated the lot of them. _Hated _them. It was terribly difficult to not fully express this hate, so she took her anger out on the Mudbloods and blood traitors instead. It was comforting, however, to know that the Lestranges hadn't been one of those traitors, and this knowledge proved to her that she had, indeed, made a good choice of her husband.

For contrary to what many thought, she _had_ received some say in whom she married. Many proposals had poured into the Black household once she had graduated Hogwarts and thus her options as to what her future surname would be had been _endless_. Nott, Crabbe, Rosier, Yaxley, even Malfoy. But she chose Lestrange for she knew that Lestrange bore a kind of ardor greater than the rest. And that ardor was rather attractive. Much more so than _Malfoy_, the name chosen for her sister Narcissa. And—oh—_Tonks_? The very thought of Andromeda discarding her name—Black—for one like _Tonks_ made her sick with disgust. Lestrange was a name worth exchanging, and so was Malfoy. But _Tonks_?

She hated her sister for commuting the name _Black _for a positively unworthy, detestable and revolting Muggle name like Tonks. She later expressed that hate by killing her niece, Nymphadora, who had preferred her father's name and had gone by it as if it were her first.

_Bellatrix _

In Pureblood society, not many people acknowledged a woman's first name as much as they did her surname or her husband's name.

Her mother, Druella Black née Rosier was known more commonly as the wife of Cygnus Black. Walburga Black was referenced to only because of her last name, a name that had never changed as she had married her second cousin, Orion Black. Lucretia Black was never known as an individual, but only as the daughter of Arcturus Black who married the still Pureblood but more liberal Ignatius Prewett. (And how she, therefore, became Lucretia Prewett.) Even her sister, Narcissa, was seen as a Malfoy above anything else.

Bellatrix was different.

She was called _Bellatrix Black _and _Bellatrix Lestrange _since both names were accurate to her being. Both Black and Lestrange hinted at her aristocratic Pureblood status, but when others uttered it, sometimes out of fear and sometimes out of hate, what mattered more than Black and Lestrange was the first half of both her names.

_Bellatrix._

She was known as _Bellatrix_ and not Black, _Bellatrix_ and not Lestrange. Bellatrix the murderer, Bellatrix the merciless torturer, Bellatrix, the Dark Lord's insane follower. . .

The name was of Latin-Greek origin, as most of the names in the Black family were. It was also the name of a star, as, yet again, most names in the Black family were. Bellatrix marked the left shoulder of Orion and was the twenty-seventh brightest star in the nighttime sky. Brighter than her was Sirius, a fact that she did not usually pay heed to but secretly annoyed her nevertheless.

There was no particular story behind Bellatrix as there was Andromeda and Narcissa, but Bellatrix stood out on its own.

For Bellatrix meant _female warrior_.

Indeed, Bellatrix Black Lestrange did live up to her name. She killed for it too. And in the end, she died for it.


	2. Victoire

**Victoire**

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter, don't own Victoire. All rights go to JKR.

For Victoire Weasley, her name and birthday went hand in hand.

_Victoire _

Victoire had always liked her name. It was strange, she knew, when compared to the rest of her cousins' names, and terribly foreign as well. But she still liked it. It was prone to mispronunciation, which could be an absolute pain for it ruined the name's natural beauty. . . but that still didn't lessen the confidence she had placed in it. And many, many people mistook it for a boy's name—due to the spelling, no doubt, as well as their own ignorance—but Victoire _still _liked it.

As a matter of fact, she loved it.

Her mother always insisted that it be pronounced the "French way" and by the "French way" she meant with all the nasal vowels so constant in the words of the romantic European language. Her father, though pronouncing it correctly, had often failed to pronounce it the "French way." He knew how to speak French after living with Maman for so many years, but his accent was still significantly British.

Victoire loved France and the French language. She loved the beautiful, sunny beaches of Marseilles whenever they visited family there, swimming in the lovely sea green Mediterranean waters, with the ships constantly sailing into the ports. She had been going to France since as long as she could remember, and she took the utmost pride in being half-French. It was a sole part of her identity. It was _who she was_. And it was her name, as well.

Her mother had taught her to savor the French sound of her name, to revel in its exceptional singularity; after all, she bore such a _special _name while others named their children insignificant, painfully typical names like Britney or Sarah or Ashley. She, instead, had a unique name that not only sounded good but had a _meaning_ interwoven in its stressed French syllables, a meaning that her parents had raised her to appreciate endlessly—no matter how strange, how foreign, how prone to mispronunciation her name was, they taught her to like her name. And she, their unhesitating disciple, learned.

Victoire Weasley had been born on the second of May of the year of nineteen ninety-nine. An exact year after the Final Battle of the Second War, a war that the entirety of her family had engaged in. She was lucky, she mused, to be born 365 days after Lord Voldemort's demise, to escape the bloody Second War by a year's worth. She was lucky, she knew, that her parents had survived to birth her, unlike Teddy's who had died just after his birth, or the deceased Uncle Fred whose chance of having a family had been so unjustly snatched away from him. . .

She had been born on May 2nd, on the anniversary of the Battle to End All Battles. Her very own family had fought (and died) in this battle. And she was named for it, named for the hard Victory that had been won by determination and passion and tenacity, as well as chance: pure chance. Or Fate, as some would argue. Both worked. But what really mattered was the Victory itself—that it had, indeed, _happened _and that it had favored _their _side. The light side, rather than the dark one.

Victoire was named for this particular victory.

Which was exactly why she loved her name so much. Her name had such a mesmerizing story behind it, as well as sucha powerful, concrete meaning. Her name was doubtlessly set apart from all others, for its incomparable, unmatchable essence. Her name was golden triumph in all its timeless glory.

But her name marked loss, as well.

And it was no surprise, then, that Victoire's birthdays subsequently turned into mourning days. They didn't mourn directly, of course not, but she saw Uncle George uncharacteristically refuse the French delicacies Maman had so meticulously cooked. Or the absentminded look Uncle Harry got on his face, as if he were reminiscing to a time long ago. And, as the years passed, she was finally able to see that Grandma's smile was somewhat forced. Of course, years of dealing with children had made said smile look rather genuine—but it failed to reach her eyes, and thus it was false.

Victoire did not object. She could not object. It would be utterly selfish for her to do so, and at the end of the day she would kiss her parents goodnight, graciously thank everyone for their presents, and quietly slip away to her bedroom to let the adults stay up late in the salon of Shell Cottage, talking through the whole night of that battle they had fought and endured so many years before. It was a little ironic, she'd always thought, that they had actually considered her to be ignorant of their nostalgic discussions. But every time she shut the door, painted white with its golden knob, to her bedroom, she was very aware of the fact that the adults were just waiting for her to be gone, for they didn't want to hurt—to break—her child-like innocence, innocence that they had once blissfully dwelt in, but had been shattered much too soon. She didn't let them either, for she always fell asleep just as they began talking. She was quite sure that the things they said, their voices quiet and hushed (and she thought she once heard a whimper and a sob) through those mockingly pleasant spring nights were awfully interesting, but she was not quite sure whether she wanted to hear.

And so, for the adults' sake, she willed herself to sleep.

This was the sadder part of her birthday, and therefore her name. For a day that was to celebrate her birth was also one to mourn others'—possibly hundreds– deaths. But she eventually determined that it was worth it. For her name encased all that had been experienced on the second of May: sorrow, loss, tears, fortitude, human will, _love_. . . all emotions turned raw with the frank violence of war. But there was one preceding trait that _Victoire_ signified, the trait that her parents had named her for. And it was beautiful and awe-worthy, but hard and strong as well, like the metals gold and iron deftly blended together. It was happiness, a happiness that was not wastefully blissful or contentedly perfect, no, but happiness in its most powerful form. It was glory, it was triumph, it was heartwarming ascendancy. . .

It was victory.

And Victory was her name.

A/N: I hope you all liked that. Thank you RowenaJeanLovegood and Cassandra30 for reviewing the previous chapter! :) If you read this, please review, whether you love or hate it. Thanks.

-I


	3. James Sirius

Disclaimer: Don't own HP. All rights go to the brilliant J. K. Rowling.

**James Sirius **

James Sirius Potter knew his namesakes, and he always made sure to live up to them.

_Potter _

James loved being a Potter. He was not uncomfortable about it like Albus, or modest about it like Lily, but quite frankly, very proud. Of course, his siblings were proud too, but James was especially proud, maybe even garishly so. He didn't necessarily brag about it, since his parents had taught him at least some humility, but he did involve it in everything he did—his motto, his persona, what he lived for, what he strove for. He'd heard of everything his father had did as a teenager, whether it was learning from Dad firsthand or reading about it in his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook. When people first met him, they judged him on his name—and he didn't mind that, for he wanted people to think of him as they thought of his father, as a Potter. When people asked him about his parents, he would just grin and answer their questions.

He didn't understand what Albus meant when he said, "I just want to be _me_ and not Dad," or how he would frown whenever someone asked him how his parents were like, how it was like to be the children of the man who saved wizardkind when he was but a teenager. Just as Albus resented this kind of attention, James reveled in it.

And why wouldn't he? After all, Potter was his _name_.

_James_

Most children knew their grandparents. Those who didn't had had their grandparents die of natural causes. But James's paternal grandparents' deaths had been far from natural. It was simply terrible and scary how young they had died. _Twenty-two_. That was the age James and Lily Potter had been mercilessly murdered by Lord Voldemort, had died in a war that claimed young lives. _Twenty-two_. The number itself was simply horrific. His own mother had been only twenty-one when she had birthed him. He couldn't imagine his parents being ripped away from him like his father's were, right at the peak of their happiness. The very thought was so unjust—_unfair _as he'd never known, so unfair that he almost couldn't even bear to think about it.

The first time James had asked about his namesake was when he was four years old. It was a general fact throughout the household that James was named for someone. That his name had a special significance. But he'd never known what that significance was, until he asked his father about it, innocent and unafraid.

"Daddy," he'd said, his hazel eyes full of inquiry. "Why am I named James?"

Dad had initially looked surprised at this random question, and then that surprise had melted away into a kind of realization, as if he'd always known that this would come up. He had then explained to him who James was—Dad's father, _his_ grandfather—and told him how the first James had been killed when Harry was very young.

Even with all this knowledge James Sirius's thirst for answers had not yet been quenched. He now knew who James Potter I was—but he still didn't know _why_ he'd been named James. Not exactly.

"Daddy," he'd started again after a brief silence, "What was he like?"

He was talking about his grandfather, of course. His namesake. And Harry had replied by telling him all sorts of stories regarding his grandfather—how he used to wear glasses just like him, how smart and funny he was, how he loved to prank people with his friends, how he was an Animagus while in school, how he loved his wife and his friends and was loyal to them till the end. Dad delved into glorious stories of James Potter I's days at school, his persistent attempts at wooing the fiery Lily Evans, and his once-a-month excursions with his friends, the Marauders. James Sirius found himself lost in these tales, consisting of both of his namesakes, and from then on he vowed to become just like his dead grandfather.

_Sirius _

Sirius wasn't James. No, Sirius was a stranger, less common name. It sounded like the word _serious—_and James was fond of the irony there, because serious was the last thing James wanted to be. He often wondered whether the real Sirius—the Sirius he was named for—ever felt likewise. For Sirius Black had been a troublemaker as great as the first James Potter. Together they had been a notorious pair, terrorizing Hogwarts with their incessant pranking.

James and Sirius were very similar, but they were different too. Sirius was a ladies' man, James II soon learned. In third year he found an album of his dad's with pictures of two young men in them, one with silky black hair that elegantly fell into his eyes and a lanky kid with hazel eyes similar to his own, messy black hair and glasses. This was James Potter I, and for a second Harry Potter's son was taken aback by how similar his grandfather looked to him. Then his eyes moved to the man beside him, who, of course, looked completely different because he wasn't actually a family relation. Yes, Sirius _was _different, in a way that both intrigued and intimidated James junior. He looked like someone the girls would prefer. There was something about his white-toothed grin and the way he flipped back his dark, shiny hair, that made James yearn to be just like him; but he knew that Sirius's casual smile consisted of a natural, innate charm that you had to be born with were you to ever master it.

Months later, he came across an old issue of the _Daily Prophet _while perusing through the Hogwarts library. Well, not really _perusing_; James never really was the one to browse through books and periodicals. But due to the current events project their teacher was forcing them to do, he had no choice.

And that was when he came across an issue all the way from 1993. There were even older issues of the newspaper, for _Daily Prophet _was virtually ancient, but what really caught his eye was the heading. Enlarged and bolded, it read, **SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES AZKABAN PRISON! **

The picture was even worst. In it was Sirius—if it was really him, for this newspaper photograph differed greatly from the picture James had found in his father's study—in ripped clothes, his dark hair tangled and greatly disheveled, his skin pallid and dirty in the black and white photograph. His teeth were clenched, and he was silently screaming up at the reader, a snarl ripping across his lips, giving him a truly animalistic look. He had a positively haggard appearance about him, such a sharp contrast to the suave and handsome man he'd seen standing next to James Potter I. Dad had told James Sirius about how, because of the Ministry's hasty unwillingness to give him a trial, Sirius had been condemned to Azkaban, his name and reputation ruined forever, his youth wasted in a jail cell. It was an essential part of the stories James liked to hear, though definitely not one of his favorite parts.

But _this_? For Sirius Black to go from charismatic, mischievous, noble and good-looking to _this_? A pitiable innocent thrown into prison, screaming for his freedom, maybe even his sanity—for back then, the Dementors used to guard Azkaban, depriving the prisoners of any thoughts that were even remotely happy. In this picture, his once handsome features seemed wasted and his gray eyes looked ghostly. James Sirius had felt a cold feeling creep into his heart as he pondered which fate would be worst—to die young or to endure a cold and unsanitary jail cell for thirteen years when you knew you were innocent.

Both were terrible, terrible options, but the former seemed preferable to the latter. Endurance required too much strength. And Gryffindors were strong, yes, but not like they were brave. Or reckless. Whatever you wanted to call it.

And it was then that James felt disgusted with himself, to prefer the cold hands of _death _to the more difficult option—a rancid jail cell with Dementors creeping about. . .

The idea of Dementors sent shivers down his spine, but James was always one to accept a challenge. He was sure that Sirius would have rather wasted twelve years in a prison cell than let death claim him altogether, and that his own grandfather had never planned to die young. And the knowledge of their fortitude, their courage, their sheer intrepidity inspired James; it instilled almost a sense of duty within him. He wanted to be dauntless, he wanted to be fearless—he wanted to be funny and charming too, so everyone would have something to remember him by. He wanted to be epic like his grandfather and his father's godfather. He wanted to be James and Sirius. He wanted to be a Potter.

And best of all, he already was all of those things.

A/N: I hope you liked!. This chapter really emphasized the "namesake" concept, as the title of my fanfic altogether suggests :) I'm sorry my update-pace is so monotonous—school's been in my face lately. Nevertheless, please review! :)


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